Cold Rice

The corridor is trimmed by rails
and welcome signs --
purple posters of a flower framed
by the fat white lie of:
"living here is not so bad."
Paper is squared, hidden by glass
to keep your arrowed fingertips
from scratching at the page this is.
They dropped you off like shaggy strays 
that mess up vinyl in a car,
pee on rugs, bark a lot, dig a hole
their eyes refuse to run across
or patch with more than writing checks.
Your body has battle fatigue --
your mind, a warrior way too bright
to be in a place where 
where moonlight is florescent bulbs
above the jail of a bed.
A snowfall sticks like cold white rice.

Every palm that passes over 
wrinkled flesh wears rubber gloves.
Touch, a distant memory.
The garden beat, empty but for 
gangly shrubs, a tulip stalk
afraid to usher in the spring.
A splintered bench with
garbage from the midnight shift,
reminding you of trellises where roses 
leaned to kiss warm rain.
We cannot own the mortal cliff --
and so we build "facilities,"
give them names that
shine with old clichés of peace.
You're grateful for a window seat;
but death itself would be the bird.
Who wouldn't want to leave this pan.


© Janet I. Buck

*First Published in Megaera, Spring 2003

---